Sherlock and John
by slowroad
Summary: "I'm not gay." John said, every time someone insinuated that he and Sherlock were a couple. Then Sherlock jumped off a building and died and John's heart broke and he understood that being in love may have nothing whatever to do with gay or straight or any other such label. And then Sherlock came back...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: These wonderful characters were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in this version by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss (bless them).**

**A/N: This entire story is told in the words and voice of John Watson.**

**...**

How is it possible to be so honestly blind to your feelings that you don't see what is right in front of your eyes? I've always thought of myself as a fairly self aware bloke. I've always known what I want in life and I've gone out and got it...well, tried at least. So how did I miss the fact that I have been in love with my best friend for the last couple of years? How could I be in love and not know it? What makes it even stranger is that everyone around me saw it a lot before I did. And they remarked on it...often. And did I pay attention? No. I said, "I'm not gay." And I figured that was that. That's all that needed to be said. I mean if I'm not gay then I can't possibly be in love with my male best friend now can I?

As for Sherlock, he doesn't care for love and relationships and everything that goes with them. He made that very clear when he told me that he was married to his work. So between his marriage and my not being gay at all, thank you very much, we were best friends and nothing more despite everybody's assumptions and insinuations. And we were happy. It never occurred to me to wonder why none of my relationships ever worked out. Despite the fact that I was sure that I wanted to find a woman that I would fall in love with and marry her and have kids and the small house in the suburbs and so on.

I told myself that I just hadn't met the right woman, that's what it was. So I kept trying, I kept dating and I kept running out on my dates every time that Sherlock called or texted and I kept getting dumped. Every single one of those women told me that it was obvious that I cared more about Sherlock than I would ever care about them.

"That's not true!" I'd say, and then, "Well maybe it is, but he's my best friend and I can't just let him run off into danger like that. Do know how reckless he is? I have to be there to watch his back...and" They would look at me pityingly as if to say, "You poor sod, you just don't see it do you?" And then they would walk away.

After a while I stopped dating. It happened so gradually that I barely noticed. And then I found that I honestly preferred to spend the evening at home with Sherlock than be on a date with some woman I didn't know and pretend to be interested in what she had to say. I'd wasted too many evenings like that. So I stayed home and we talked and laughed and I made dinner while he worked on his experiments and then we sat quietly and read for hours or he played for me or we watched a movie together and it was a good life. It was a very good life. We were practically married and I still did not see it.

And then damn Moriarty got in the way and Sherlock jumped off a building and died...I saw him fall. I heard him fall...I don't think I will ever forget that sickening crunch as his head hit the pavement, or the sight of all that blood. Sherlock died and my heart broke into a million pieces. I went around in a daze for weeks after that. I didn't know where I was, I didn't know what I was doing...I barely remembered to eat and sleep. I realised that I had my friends worried. Everyone knew that Sherlock's death had hit me hard. He was my best friend, after all. But they assumed that after a couple of months, I would be done grieving and get over it and move on with my life or something. But I couldn't...

I quit my job at the clinic. I realised just a couple of hours into my shift on the first day that my mind was not all there. I was afraid that I would endanger someone either by misdiagnosing them or giving them the wrong medicine or God forbid, missing something essential that I should see. Initially, I thought I would just take a few days off. Sarah understood and she told me that I could go back whenever I felt ready. I have no idea what I have done to earn that woman's friendship but I'm very grateful for it.

I spent hours holed up in the flat, surrounded by things that reminded me of Sherlock. I took to wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed. After the first month, I realised that I would soon run out of money. I would have to pull myself together and go out and get a job, if only to pay the rent. I didn't know how to do that, though...pull myself together, I mean. Then Mycroft came by one evening and told me something that shattered my heart even further. Sherlock had made a will, a year ago, leaving all the money in his trust fund to me, should anything happen to him.

It was the clearest sign yet that Sherlock had cared...enough to worry about me. It made me feel even worse about the way I had treated him the last time that we had been together...I had called him a machine...I would probably never forgive myself for that.

"I can't take it. I'm sorry." I said.

"Why?" Mycroft said.

"It doesn't belong to me." I said.

"Sherlock wanted you to have it."

"I really appreciate the gesture. It means a lot, but I still can't take it."

I knew I was being stubborn, but I couldn't take Sherlock's money. It didn't feel right, not after all the times that I had so strenuously denied even the possibility of a relationship between us with my repeated insistence that I'm not gay. Had Sherlock wanted a relationship like that with me? I wouldn't ever know now, but I couldn't ignore the fact that every time that someone had assumed that we were in a relationship. I was the only one that had done the denying. That coupled with the fact of his will made me wonder...

I was still angry with Mycroft for selling his brother out. So I didn't want to talk to him or have anything to do with him really. I think he knew that. He had stayed away from me until then, but I had a suspicion that he was having me watched.

"I really am sorry, John. I am having all the cases that he worked on reinvestigated. I will prove that all the charges against him are false. I promise." He said.

"That still won't bring him back, will it?"

He winced at that. "Just take the money, John. You are the only person that Sherlock ever cared about. This is the least I can do for him." He said and then he left.

Sarah came to see me a few months after Sherlock died. I was still a mess. I was afraid that she would goad me to get over it and tell me that I have to get on with life and so on but she didn't. She just held me and let me cry. "Are you still going to say that you were just friends?" She asked me gently. It was a while before I was able to speak. "No. We weren't just friends." I said finally_. We weren't just a couple, either. We were soul mates_, I thought. We were like missing pieces of each other, we met and connected and now it was impossible for one to exist without the other. I knew then that there would be no getting over it or moving on for me.

So I had to learn to live with this ache inside me. I had to learn to do more than sit and stare out of a window all day. I don't know how it happened exactly or why even, but one day, I started writing. Not my blog...I'd given that up after that final stubborn entry...I just started writing, about Sherlock. I wrote out every single memory that I had of him, everything he'd ever said and done...all the personal stuff that I had been so careful to leave out of my blog. I was not writing for anyone else now. I was writing for myself. If memories were all I had left, I was going to hold on to them as fiercely as I could.

As I kept writing, I discovered a couple of things. I had many more memories than I had realised. It took me four days to write about our first two days together. Also most of the memories were happy. I had been happy for the two short years that I had been with Sherlock...with him, the world just made sense, life was easy...it was interesting and fun and...The more I wrote, the more I found myself smiling. I was healing in a way, I guess. It helped that Mycroft had used his considerable resources to prove Sherlock's innocence beyond a doubt.

Somehow, a year went by. I was still miserable...I knew that was not about to change anytime soon, but I was no longer lost inside my own head. I went back to work and made an attempt to live my life. And then it was the anniversary of his death. I woke up after a restless night with a weight in my heart...It felt like Sherlock had died all over again. I wanted nothing more than to stay at home, stay in his bed all day. But I didn't. I pulled myself together and went to the graveyard with Mrs Hudson. I put flowers on his grave, I felt the lump in my throat and the tears in my eyes and once again I prayed for a miracle. Little did I know that my miracle was at home waiting for me...

...

**A/N: Reviews encourage me to write. So please let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

It was late evening when I finally got back to Baker Street. I'd spent a lot of time in the grave yard that day, just sitting and thinking and then I had wandered all over the city. I found myself walking around all of our favourite places...I stopped outside Angelo's on the way home and looked in through the window at that table where we had sat on our first night together. Angelo saw me and waved me in. But I shook my head and walked away. I didn't think I would be able to keep my composure if I went in there.

I walked home. Mrs Hudson was waiting for me. She offered me a cup of tea. I declined. I didn't think I could eat or drink anything and manage to keep it down. No, I needed to grieve all over again. I walked up the steps, counting them off as I went. I don't know why I did that exactly, but it was just one of those habits that don't make any sense. I put my key in the lock and noticed that the door was unlocked. I was a bit surprised, but not much. I figured that I must have forgotten to lock the door on my way out.

I walked in and hung up my coat. I turned on the lights and then I froze...I saw Sherlock lying on the couch. He seemed to be asleep. My first thought was that I had finally gone around the bend. I was seeing things that simply couldn't be true...or could they? My heart was pounding in my chest and my legs felt wobbly. I made my way over to the couch and put my hand on his arm. It felt warm and solid, so it had to be real right? He had to be real.

I don't know how long I stood there and watched him...I noted the steady rise and fall of his chest, the thin arms and legs, the bruises on his arms and his face. _What is going on? Is Sherlock really here? Am I losing my mind? Why does he look so thin? And what's with all the bruises? Who the hell has been treating him this way?_

I sank to the floor beside the couch and sat there looking at him. I was overwhelmed by what I was feeling. There was shock. If this was real, if he was real, then Sherlock had faked his own death...the bastard...the brilliant bastard. So that phone call, the ridiculous admission of guilt, it was all a bloody set up. There was anger. He'd let me go a whole year thinking he was dead. How could he do that? Why would we do that? Didn't he know how hurt I would be? How much pain and agony he would put me through? _Maybe he didn't know._ _I never exactly said anything to him, did I? That still doesn't make it alright. But he's back. Isn't this the miracle that I've asking for? _So there was joy as well...so much of it that I could barely contain myself.

I don't know how long I sat there looking at that beloved face as he slept. Despite all our closeness, I had only seen Sherlock asleep a couple of times. It is quite a sight. I mean Sherlock is all action and energy. Awake, he's either talking nonstop and rushing around in a blur of activity or staring glumly at nothing wondering when the next case will come along. It is only when he's asleep that he looks truly peaceful. All the lines of his face are smoothed out, there's a hint of a smile and it is as if the years fall away from him. He looks very young and innocent, more a boy than a man really.

Slowly, the shock wore off. I was able to accept that Sherlock really was alive and back home, sleeping peacefully. I had got my miracle. I sat there asking myself all the questions that I wanted to ask him and I came up with answers that were far from satisfactory. I was torn between joy and anger so that when he finally woke up, I didn't know whether to hug him or to hit him.

He saw me the moment he opened his eyes. There was a flicker of something there that I did not recognise. "Hello John." He said softly and then he smiled. It was a very tentative smile, almost as if he was unsure of his welcome. That smile did me in. Sherlock Holmes is the most confident and self assured man I have ever met. Tentative does not suit him at all. No matter what he had done, he should not have to doubt his welcome on his own home..._There will never be a day when I will not be glad to see Sherlock and he had better know it, _I thought_. _So I sat on the couch, took his hand in my own and I just looked at him.

"I'm sorry." He said after a bit.

"You better be. And you'd also better have a damn good explanation for all the shit you've put me through."

He nodded. I was angry. I was hurt and confused, but at that moment the only thing that mattered to me was that Sherlock was back in my life. He sat up and winced. He was obviously in pain. I decided that all the questions and explanations could wait. I had to attend to him first.

"We can talk later and trust me, we will talk, but I want to deal with all your injuries first. Get your shirt off. I'll go get my kit."

He nodded and started undoing the buttons of his shirt. I went up to my room and picked up my medical kit. I walked back down and saw him sitting on the couch looking distinctly uncomfortable. I was taken aback by how thin he was. Clearly he hadn't been eating often or enough. _Not sure why I'm surprised by that. It's not like he ever used to eat properly unless_ _I was forcing him to_. What concerned me more was the sight of all the bruises on his shoulders and his back. There was a gash on his left shoulder...it looked like someone had gone at him with a knife. It was a thought that made me really angry.

I walked up to the couch and pulled the coffee table closer and put my medical kit on it. Sherlock was staring at me intently. "I expected you to be really angry." He said.

"I am. But I'm also really glad that you're back. Life without you is rather tame." I said as I laid out my supplies...the spirit and the bandages, the antiseptic, the sutures even. That shoulder wound looked like it might need stitching.

"I expected you to punch me, call me lots of names and then kick me out." The tone of his voice suggested that he thought he deserved that kind of treatment.

"I might yet do all of that...apart from the kicking you out." I said and then I started cleaning the bruises on his face. I was bursting with questions. I wanted to make indignant demands for an explanation, but he looked so battered and in so much pain, that the doctor in me won out. I had to fix him first. I would do the yelling later. I said as much to him and I got a faint smile in response.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Um...I don't remember."

"Of course you don't." I said and then I got my phone out of my pocket.

"Chinese?" I said.

"Of course."

I called our regular Chinese takeaway and placed an order and then I got back to work.

"Who's been doing this to you?" I said as I cleaned the wounds on his arms. Most of them looked like they were a few days old. They clearly hadn't been attended to.

"Moriarty's minions." He said.

"Figures. So is that what you've been doing? Trying to destroy his network?"

He nodded.

"Is it done?"

"Yes. As of last night."

"Is that why you came back?"

"That's the only reason I stayed away."

I didn't know what to say to that. I asked him to turn around so I could look at the gash on his shoulder. It did need stitches.

"So are you officially alive now?"

"I will be."

"Okay. This wound on your shoulder is really deep. I need to stitch it. Just hold still alright."

"Okay."

It must have hurt like a bitch, but he stayed absolutely still and didn't make a sound. The food arrived just as I finished. I put the bags of take away on the table in the kitchen and washed up. Then I set out the plates and the bowls and served. Sherlock shrugged his shirt on and walked into the kitchen. He looked hesitant, almost as if he was waiting for an explosion. I won't deny that I was close to exploding. Now that I had no specific task to focus on, all the hurt and the anger and confusion rushed to the fore. But I had myself under control. I had decided that I would attend to him first and that included feeding him.

I didn't know what he would tell me in response to all my questions and how I would feel after that. And I didn't want to find out until he had some food inside him. I hadn't eaten all day either. "Let's just eat first. We'll talk later." I said. We ate in near complete silence. It wasn't as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. Once we were done, I put the leftovers in the fridge and all the dishes in the sink. We settled down in the living room, Sherlock on the couch and me on my armchair. And we talked.

He told me everything. I tried to listen without interrupting but it was difficult. "Why the fake phone call about Mrs Hudson? I could have stayed with you. I could have helped."

"I was afraid Moriarty would find a way to use you against me, John. And I didn't want to put you in danger. It had to be just me and him."

I wasn't satisfied with that explanation, but I let him continue. When he told me why he was forced to jump off that building, I almost choked. And people call him heartless. And then he explained how he faked his death with Molly's help. While I was impressed with the brilliance and the simplicity of his plan I was furious that that Molly had known that he was alive all this time and I hadn't.

"Molly? She knew all this time and she didn't say a word. She saw what I was going through, how much I was hurting and she didn't say anything. I don't believe this!"

"I made her promise, John."

"Why? You had to go away and do what you had to do. You could at least have let me know that you were alive."

I couldn't. I was afraid that if you knew, you would follow me."

"Damn right I would have."

"You were being watched the whole time, John. If you had followed me, you would have let Moriarty's men right to me and defeated the whole purpose of this charade."

"Then you could have told me that and I would have stayed right here."

"Would you have? Be honest."

I didn't have an answer to that. "You could have died Sherlock. You were on your own."

"You already believed that I was dead." He said.

I was stunned. "I can't believe you just said that."

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean it that way. Please understand."

"I'm trying, Sherlock but this isn't easy. It's not easy at all. So who else knew?"

He didn't say anything to that. "Mycroft knew that you were alive, didn't he?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, but the look on his face was confirmation enough. I let loose a string of expletives and kicked the coffee table. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"It was necessary. I needed his help. I'm sorry John. I'm aware that I've hurt you, but I did the best I could given the circumstances."

"Maybe. But I still think you should have told me. We would have figured something out. I can't accept that there was no other way. I can't. I thought we were partners, that we were fighting Moriarty and everyone else together..."

"There was no other way, John." He insisted stubbornly. "I knew you would be hurt. But I assumed that you would move on after a couple of months. You are nothing if not resilient."

I couldn't fault him for thinking that I would move on. When had I said or done anything that might indicate otherwise? I sighed and put my head in my hands. "Well, I didn't move on. And it certainly wasn't for lack of trying..."


	3. Chapter 3

A week had gone by since that day. It was the most confusing and emotionally draining week of my life. I was happy to have Sherlock back. But I was also angry and hurt and terrified that he would disappear on me again. I had somehow survived it once, but I knew that if he pulled that kind of stunt again, it would break me. "I only did it to protect you." He said.

I believed him. But I couldn't help wishing that he had told me, let me know somehow that he was alive. He sighed and confessed that one of the reasons he hadn't told me was that he hadn't been sure that he would come back alive. That stopped me in my tracks. It made me see the big picture...the fact that against all odds, Sherlock was somehow not dead. He had done what he had set out to do and he had come back...to me.

But I had been in so much pain for a whole year. It hurt to realise that all that pain had been needless. My journey through hell had been unnecessary, avoidable. That is what bothered me the most. I knew I had to let it go. I wanted to let it go. I just didn't know how. So I put those feelings aside and got on with my life...the strange thing, though, is that the moment I turned my back on them, my life fell into a well remembered routine and soon the anger and the hurt were gone.

The insecurity was still there, though. Sherlock had been home for a week now, but I still found it hard to accept that he was really here. I didn't want to seem all clingy, but I was honestly loath to let him out of my sight. I took to staying up as late as he did, because I knew that even if I did go to bed, I would only lie around feeling restless and unable to sleep. I'd wake up every morning and walk down the stairs with my stomach in a knot that would not unravel until I saw him. I even woke up a couple of times each night and went to check on him, afraid that it had all been a dream. And I was reluctant to go to work, as well.

Sherlock noticed this, of course. He tried to reassure me in his own way, but it didn't help much. He took to pushing me out of the door every morning, insisting that I go to work. He would text me every hour telling me everything from what he was doing to what Mrs Hudson had just said to what the dog across the street was doing, and of course, how terribly bored he was.

That was only natural, considering that he wasn't officially alive yet and was therefore unable to work. Mycroft and I had decided that we wouldn't let him make an official announcement until he was fully recovered. I had insisted that Sherlock rest for a couple of weeks at least. Not only did he have to recover from all his injuries, he also needed to eat and sleep properly to recover his strength. He was painfully malnourished. Sherlock chafed at the confinement, but he accepted my terms without too much fuss...which for Sherlock meant that he only complained about ten times a day, instead of every half hour.

It was about ten days after Sherlock had come back. I walked down the stairs feeling sleepy and bleary eyed. I had only got to bed at three the previous night and I hadn't slept well at all. _I'm so glad I don't have to go to work today_, I thought as I walked into the kitchen, feeling that all too familiar knot in my stomach. I saw Sherlock standing at the counter, making tea. He'd been doing that for the last few days, but it was still a surprise to have him make tea for me every morning. I leaned against the door frame and let myself relax. Sherlock was still here. Everything was alright.

"You have got to stop doing this to yourself." He said as he poured out the tea. "I'm not going to go anywhere, John. I promise."

I flushed a bit. This was the first time that he had referred to the fact that I had trouble sleeping because I was afraid that I would wake up and find him gone. I didn't know what to say to that. So I nodded and then I walked into the kitchen, accepted the cup of tea that he had made perfectly again, and sat down. I picked up the newspaper and pretended to read. I knew that my attempt at evasion wouldn't work, but I had to try.

"You need your rest." He said softly as he pushed the newspaper down and forced me to look at him. "You look haggard and you have dark circles under your eyes. It is just not a good look on you, trust me." He said.

I smiled. I appreciated his attempt to lighten things. I appreciated his concern even more, but I honestly had no idea what to do. My insecurity was rather deep rooted and it was clearly not going anywhere. I needed to start sleeping properly. I did agree with him on that, but short of using sleeping pills, and that is a temporary solution at best, I didn't know what to do.

"I don't know what to do, but I'll try not to worry so much, alright. Maybe I feel like this because it hasn't been long since you got back. Maybe it is just a matter of time." I said.

"Maybe." He said, but he didn't look convinced.

"Is Mycroft coming over today?" I said and his phone beeped as if in response.

"And he expects me to believe that this place isn't bugged." Sherlock said as he picked up his phone.

He was right. It was a text from Mycroft saying that he would come over at five. He was going to a call a press conference the next day to make the news of Sherlock's return official. I knew that once we made the announcement our lives would get very busy again. The press had hounded me for days after Sherlock's supposed death. They had started hounding me again about three months ago when Mycroft had all the evidence of Sherlock's innocence published. The metropolitan police department had offered a very public apology. I'm sure Mycroft did a bit of arm twisting to make that happen.

That time the media attention had lasted a full three weeks. I started getting hits and comments on my blog again. So I knew that an announcement that Sherlock was in fact alive would get a lot of attention. Not only would we be dealing with the media, the cases would start coming in again. Greg was the only one on the police department who knew that Sherlock was alive. Mycroft had told him a day after Sherlock came back. He came to see us both and he apologised profusely for his part in arresting Sherlock and laying all those accusations on him. Neither Sherlock nor I had been angry about that. We knew he had been coerced and he had after all tried to warn us. Greg was a friend. And we had ever doubted that.

He told us that he would start calling us out to crime scenes as soon as we announced that Sherlock was alive. He said that his solve rate on cases had dropped drastically over the past year and he had to do what he could to make it look good again. That's what he said. And it was true to some extent. But mostly, I think he wanted Sherlock to go back to working with the police with his head held high. So that all those people who had pointed fingers at him and made all sorts of baseless accusations, for no reason other than that they could neither understand nor stomach the sheer brilliance of his mind, would be forced to eat humble pie.

Well, he was not the only one looking forward to that. I couldn't wait to see Donovan and Anderson's faces when we finally walked back on a crime scene. I couldn't wait to hear Sherlock tell them off. And if either of them was foolish enough to use the word 'freak' in my presence, I was not going to stop to remember that assaulting an officer of the law is a crime.

So this was essentially our last day of peace and quiet. While Sherlock was itching to get out there and start working again, I wanted to make the most of this quiet time. We spent the whole day talking, watching movies that I liked and Sherlock made fun of. I had deliberately chosen James Bond because Sherlock always has so much to say about these movies. None of it is complimentary, but it is very very funny. I had by now come to enjoy his snarky comments more than the movies themselves.

So we dissected Mr Bond over a curry lunch. Then we talked for a bit. Then Sherlock played the violin while I sat in my arm chair and listened. Then he worked on a few cold cases that Greg had got him a few days ago, while I read my book. Mrs Hudson joined us for tea. She brought us some scones and some fruit cake. We had just settled ourselves around the table in the kitchen when Mycroft arrived. He looked appreciatively at the cake and the scones and said, "I'm right on time I see." Sherlock snorted and started digging into his brother about his diet. They traded insults as usual.

I made some more tea and offered it to Mycroft. I caught Mrs Hudson's eye as I sat down. She was beaming and there was a hint of tears in her eyes...I knew exactly what she was thinking. Life was normal again. It may be hard to believe that one person could make such a difference. But there it was. Sherlock was back and we were all happy again. _I wonder if he knows just how much he means to us...just how lame and blank life was without him, _I thought as I sat back and watched him take over the conversation the way he always did.

...

**A/N: Tell me what you think...**


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs Hudson was the first to leave. She had to go see Mrs Turner about something. Mycroft stayed a bit longer, giving instructions about the press conference the next day. He talked while Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and pretended not to listen.

"Well, I'd best be going." Mycroft said as he got up to leave. "I expect you to think about the questions you will get, particularly about the way you faked your death. You'll need to decide exactly how much you want to tell and stick to it...and please make sure you both agree on what you're going to say."

"Why? I'm not going to be taking any questions." I said.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft looked at me in a way that made me feel like I had just said something very stupid. "What?" I said.

"Of course you're going to take questions." Sherlock said. "You can't just abandon me to the mercy of the press. I won't let you."

"But Sherlock this is about you..."

"If I may, John." Mycroft began. "You may not be ready to acknowledge it, but no one sees my brother as just Sherlock Holmes anymore. When they look at him or think about him, they see the both of you. Like it or not, it is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. You're...partners." He said that in a way that I can only describe as suggestive. I flushed. I hoped that Sherlock would not notice, but I knew that the possibility of that was nonexistent. I looked up just in time to see Mycroft give Sherlock a very knowing look, which was returned with a nod and a hint of a smile.

_Right. So what's with all the wordless communication? _I wondered. I thought I might have an idea, but I was afraid that it might just be wishful thinking on my part, so I let it go.

"The press will have a hundred questions for you, John...Did you know he was alive? When did you know? How did you react? And of course the ever present questions regarding the status of your relationship. Perhaps the two of you should think about that as well." Mycroft said as he looked pointedly between us. Again there was that suggestion of a subtext. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft smirked and then he picked up his umbrella and walked out of the door.

"Anthea will pick you up at eleven." He called after him.

It was obvious that Mycroft was telling us that we needed to think about our relationship. It was also obvious, that he, like everybody else, believed that it was a lot more than friendship. Now I was no longer in denial. I was sure that I was in love with Sherlock. Very much so, in fact. And this, despite all my uncertainty about being with a man. But I had no idea what Sherlock felt for me. I knew he cared. I knew that I was very important to him. But did he love me...enough to consider or even want a relationship? I had no idea. I hoped of course, but was that enough to risk ruining our friendship?

I was still deep in thought when, "John?" Sherlock said softly.

I shook myself out of my reverie and looked up. Sherlock was looking at me intently. There was nothing particularly unusual about that. But there was something in the way he was doing the looking that gave me pause. It was a very direct stare, like he was trying to see into my head...

"What are you thinking about?" He said finally.

"Um...nothing. Just wondering about tomorrow." He looked like he didn't believe me, but he didn't press.

"I guess I'd better get dinner going." I said as I got up and started messing about the kitchen. He watched me quietly for a couple of minutes and then he went into the living room and got out his violin. He started playing. He'd told me that he'd really missed his violin when he was away. That was obvious in the way he played now. I was surprised by his choice of music, though. There was a lot of Mozart and Vivaldi there. It is the kind of music that speaks of joy and evokes happy memories. It is playful music. The kind that he does not normally play. I listened to him as I went about my task. It felt nice to be in the kitchen, cooking again. It was something that I had almost not done in the year that he had been away. Somehow, I could never find the enthusiasm to cook when I was only doing it for me.

...

It was a couple of hours later. We had finished dinner. We had gone over most of what we wanted to say at the press conference the next day. It was important. It was an attempt to restore Sherlock's reputation after Moriarty had torn it to shreds. A good bit of this was already done. Everyone knew that Sherlock was innocent of all those charges, but the whole fake dying and going after Moriarty's network, was a delicate subject. We had to play it right. We had to make sure not to antagonise anyone. The press would be only too ready to jump in and cry foul if we got on their wrong side. And Sherlock has a particular talent for getting on people's wrong side. So I was worried. I guess it showed.

"I don't understand why it matters so much to you." He said.

"Why what matters?"

"What people think about me, what they say or write..."

"It matters, Sherlock, because you matter. You're unique. You're brilliant. You're important. I want the press to acknowledge that. Particularly after all the nasty things they said."

"And you're afraid I'll say the wrong thing and ruin it."

"Yes. Just keep a hold of your temper, alright."

"I'll try. But only because this is important to you."

"Thanks." I knew that was the most I would get out of him, so I let it go.

We talked for a while longer and then we went to bed. I couldn't get to sleep, of course. I tossed and turned, I squeezed my eyes shut, I willed myself to go to sleep. But nothing worked. I fell into a fitful sleep somewhere around two in the morning and suddenly I was standing on the road looking up at the roof of St Bart's. Sherlock tossed his phone aside and then he jumped. His head hit the pavement with a sickening crunch and there was all this blood and I was running and screaming and someone was shaking me, trying to get me to wake up.

I opened my eyes and saw Sherlock. He was sitting on my bed. He had his hands on my shoulders. "John, it's okay. I'm here. I'm right here."

I shook my head, trying to make the dream go away. My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. My throat hurt like I had been screaming..._Oh_. So that was why Sherlock was here. I'd had this particular nightmare many times before, but the screaming was a first. I sat up. "I'm sorry. Was I screaming?" My voice was barely a croak.

"Yes. My name, over and over. Here. Drink this." He said and poured me a glass of water.

"What was it about? The nightmare?" He said.

"I think you know." I said.

"Does this happen often?"

"Every damn day."

"Is that why you can't sleep?"

"Yes. It is also why I keep coming down in the middle of the night to check on you."

I put my head in my hands and groaned. I felt awful and pathetic. I was embarrassed. Sherlock pulled my hands away from my face and drew me into a hug. I was tense and stiff at first. "Relax." He said and he started running his hands up and down my back. I sighed and relaxed into that rare and very unexpected embrace. "You are not pathetic." He said softly.

He pulled away after a couple of minutes and stood up. He got up and turned to go. I wanted him to stay. But I couldn't bring myself to say it. I was surprised when he merely went around to the other side of the bed, kicked off his slippers and got under the sheets.

"You're...going to sleep here?" I hadn't seen that coming.

"Problem?"

"Not at all."

"Good. Come here." He said and then he drew me close. He was lying on his back. I was lying next to him. He had his arms around me and I had my head on his chest. He kissed me on my forehead and said, "Now sleep." Like it was the most normal thing in the world to get into your friend's bed in the middle of the night and go to sleep holding him close. Did I mention that I love him?

...

**A/N: Please take a moment to tell me what you think.**


	5. Chapter 5

I woke up to see Sherlock lying next to me in my bed...so it hadn't been a dream after all. He had one arm around me. He had a book in the other and he was reading. He turned when I shifted. "Morning, John."

"Morning." I said as I snuggled a bit closer. I didn't realise what I was doing until I found myself nuzzling his neck. I froze. _Bloody hell! What am I doing?_ But then it struck me that Sherlock had thought nothing of getting into my bed last night and going to sleep with his arms around me. He was still holding me, in fact. So a little matter of snuggling couldn't be out of order now could it?

So I relaxed and let myself enjoy the feeling of having him close. "Slept well?" He said after a couple of minutes. He seemed remarkably unfazed by any of this. So I decided to follow his lead. That is pretty much what I do all the time anyway.

"Very well, thanks to you."

"Good. You'd better get up, though. We have less than an hour before we have to leave. And I, for one, don't relish the idea of Anthea banging the door down." He said. I made to get out of bed but he pulled me back and kissed me lightly on my cheek. Then he got out of bed and walked out my room like he had done nothing at all unusual.

It was a couple of minutes before I realised that I was still sitting on the bed with a big smile on my face. I couldn't help it. I was stupidly happy. I went down to the kitchen about half an hour later to find a freshly brewed cup of tea waiting for me. Sherlock however, was absent. I went looking for him and I found him in his bedroom. He was standing in front of the closet. He was shirtless, a fact that made me catch my breath and brought a flush to my face. I realised that shouldn't have walked in like that despite the fact that the door had been open.

I had seen Sherlock shirtless before...many times, in fact. But that was always in a situation in which he was injured and I was cleaning/bandaging/fixing him up. I was a doctor faced with a patient. This was entirely different. I had caught him while he was getting dressed. Sherlock hadn't acknowledged me, but he had to have known that I was standing at the door, trying not to gape. He was looking through his closet. He seemed to be trying to pick a shirt. I was having a great deal of difficulty keeping my eyes from wandering. _Seriously, how can those trousers possibly fit so well?_

Sensing the potential for embarrassment in that situation, I turned to go, but Sherlock called out to stop me. He held out a couple of shirts and asked me to help him choose. _Now that is a first. Since when does he care about my_ _opinion of his clothes? _I was trying to keep the flush off my face, but I failed signally_._He seemed oblivious to my discomfort. But that is how he is. He will only notice and acknowledge those things that matter to him. So clearly my discomfort was not important.

"Well?" He said.

I walked into the room and looked at the shirts that he held out. Now Sherlock looks gorgeous in everything, but there is one shirt, a purple silk one that in my opinion makes him look edible, almost. It has long been my favourite shirt. The way he was holding it out just then suggested that he knew it. _Right. What is going on? Is Sherlock flirting with me? "_The purple one." I said as calmly as I could. He smiled a slow smile. "You really like this one, don't you?" He said, clearly trying to wind me up.

"Yes I do."

"Okay." He said and then he started to put it on. He got his hands through the sleeves when I decided that I wasn't going to be the only one feeling flushed and breathless. So I put my hand on his as he started to button up. "Let me." I said. I moved to stand right in front of him and started buttoning his shirt for him. I let my fingers flutter over his skin as often as I could. I heard his breath hitch and I saw a hint of a flush on those beautiful, pale cheeks of his. I was no better, but I had thrown him off balance and that felt good.

...

It was a couple of hours later. We were at the press conference. It was going very well. Sherlock was a revelation. He was at his charming best and within five minutes of his entrance he had the entire room hanging on his every word as he spoke, laughed and bantered his way through all the questions. Which isn't to say that the press was going easy or not asking difficult questions. They were. Some of their questions made me quite angry, in fact. But Sherlock was totally unfazed. He didn't let anyone get to him. He answered all the questions, made a lot of jokes and generally carried on as if it was friendly social gathering.

I'd seen Sherlock do this sort of thing before, while questioning witnesses and trying to get information. He knew exactly how to employ his looks and his considerable charm. It was obvious that a lot of the journalists there were thrown off balance. They kept baiting him and he stayed very calm, smiled cheerfully and refused to react. After a while, they gave up and turned to me. I must have tensed a little. Sherlock reached for my hand under the table. The spontaneity of that gesture made me want to smile. It also made me wonder. A year ago he would never have attempted it and I would not have appreciated it. How we change...

"Dr Watson, were you aware that your partner had faked his death?"

"No I wasn't."

"When did you find out?"

"About ten days ago."

"How did that make you feel?"

"I believe that is personal and we're not here to answer personal questions. This is about Sherlock's professional reputation as a consulting detective. So let's keep the questions to that, shall we?"

"Did you feel betrayed?"

"I refuse to answer that question for the reasons that I have already stated."

"So you were upset."

"No comment."

"It had to have hurt right. I mean he's your partner and he lied to you. He abandoned you. You can't tell me that you weren't angry."

"Whether I was hurt or angry or not is between him and me and I'm not about to tell you so you might as well move on to something else." I said.

"You stopped writing in your blog when Mr Holmes faked his death. Are you going to start writing again?"

"Once we get back to solving cases, yes."

"And when is that going to happen, Mr Holmes?"

"Soon. I believe Detective Inspector Lestrade has a few cases lined up."

"There are a lot of people who read your blog who believe that the two of you are in a relationship. Is that true Dr Watson?"

I was about to throw another no comment at them but Sherlock decided to answer that question instead. "Of course it's true. Last I checked friendship was a relationship. And that is what we are. Friends."

"Friends don't risk their lives for each other and they certainly don't fake their own deaths."

"Well, we do." Sherlock said and stood up and strode out of the room without a second glance. I followed him out the way I always do. I couldn't wait to get home...

...

**A/N: I had a lot of difficulty writing this chapter. So I need to know what you think...**


	6. Chapter 6

It was later that evening. I was sitting in my armchair with my feet resting on the coffee table. I had my laptop perched on my knees and I was staring at my blog. I had intended to write a blog post to announce the fact that Sherlock was alive and well and intending to start working soon. I knew what I wanted to say, but the words just wouldn't come. Somehow that act of opening my blog, made me remember, forced me to face once again, what it had been like to live my life thinking that Sherlock was dead. It made me relive everything that I had felt when he finally came back. There was too much emotion there that I was trying not to express.

So I went through a few rounds of type and delete and by the end of it I was struggling for composure. I sighed and closed the laptop and put it away. Sherlock had been lying on the couch all this while. He had his eyes closed, but I wasn't sure whether he was thinking or sleeping. He opened his eyes when he heard me shut the laptop and he looked at me for a minute. Then he got up and came over to me. He pulled me to my feet and into a hug. The best thing about living with him is that I never have to tell him how I feel. One look at me and he knows. I held on to him and tried to regain my composure. It was easy to do, considering how much warmth he manages to convey in the way he holds me.

He pulled back a little and then he kissed me softly on my cheek and said, "Okay?"

I nodded. He smiled. "Good." He said. "Now John, I'd like you to go upstairs, take a shower and get dressed."

"Why?"

"I want to take you out to dinner."

I felt a smile breaking out on my face before I could stop it. "Why?" I said softly.

"I don't need a reason to take you out now do I?" He said in that damnably suggestive way that he has.

"I suppose not. Where are we going?"

"Angelo's."

"Why Angelo's?"

"Because that was the scene of our first not-date."

"Not-date huh? That's an interesting way of describing it."

"Indeed. Now go dress up for me will you?"

I raised my eyebrows at that. "Dress up? Why?"

"Because tonight, things will be different. You see, I don't think I can claim to be married to my work any longer."

I raised my eyebrows at that. "Okay." I said. "Well, I'm not about to state that I'm not gay. I'm not. But that's hardly the point."

"Exactly. Now go." He said and pushed me towards the stairs.

**...**

About half an hour later, we were walking through the streets. This was just the second time that Sherlock had left the house after he came back. The first was this morning, but that was in a chauffeur driven car with tinted windows, so it didn't count. He looked around as we walked, taking in everything, literally breathing the city in. His face was impassive as usual...he only ever shows emotion when we're alone...but I could see the light in his eyes, his delight at being back in London. Sherlock loves this city with a passion that he will never admit to.

We walked into the restaurant and we were ambushed by Angelo who - could not believe his eyes - and he was so glad to see Sherlock - and so glad for me now that my man was back in my life - and how the hell did Sherlock manage to make everyone think he was dead - and how could he possibly do that to me - and did he not know how heartbroken I would be and so on and on...With all that, it was a good ten minutes before Angelo left us at our table and went off to attend to our order. He declared that the meal would be on the house, the way he always does.

It was hard to shake the feeling of déjà vu. But then that was exactly the intent, wasn't it? To go back to the place where it all began and start over. It was all so familiar and yet it wasn't. We were both silent for a while. We sat there looking out of that window, thinking about that first night that we'd sat there waiting for that cabbie to show...Sherlock had cured me of my limp that night. That was the first time we'd run all over the streets chasing a suspect, the first time that I had seen fit to kill someone to protect a man that I had known for just over twenty four hours. The connection was there from the beginning, from the moment we met, almost. Why didn't we see it? Or was I the only one who hadn't?

"Sherlock..."

"Hmmm..."

"Did you really think I was interested in you that night?" That question might have sounded vague to anyone else, but Sherlock knew exactly what I was talking about.

"Oh I knew you were interested and definitely intrigued. It was only later that I realised that you were unaware of your own interest."

"Yeah, I was a bit thick...What about you?"

"I think I was interested as well. That's why I got so defensive."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't mean to be arrogant, John, but a lot of people have been interested in me in the past and I have almost never returned that interest. So I just ignore it, like I do with Molly. I pretend that I don't see what she's feeling and that I don't understand what she's saying. But I couldn't ignore you and I think that's the reason I went into that whole married to my work speech that I gave you. And then of course you started declaring that you're not gay and that was that."

"I feel so stupid about that." I said. And then I leaned across the table and took his hand in mine. He squeezed my hand lightly and raised it to his lips. "You are a bit of an idiot." He said fondly. I nodded in agreement.

"When did you stop being...um, defensive?" I said.

Such an indirect question. It seems stupid, I know, considering that we both knew exactly what we were talking about, but that's just the way it is with us. We are quite unable to talk openly about our feelings. We both knew with a fair amount of certainty that we were in love with each other. But we only knew how to be friends. It felt natural to touch and hold hands and to hug, but we had no real idea how to move from that to being and acting like lovers...like two people in a romantic relationship.

I had all my uncertainty about being with a man, to deal with and Sherlock had his inexperience. He had only been in one relationship before and that had ended spectacularly badly. So we were both on new and rather shaky ground and we were feeling our way through it the best we could. The one thing that kept us going was the absolute certainty that we shared that we were meant to be together, that we belonged together. If that one year apart had taught us anything, it was this.

"Um...When you told me that you had a date with Sarah."

"I feel like such a cad."

"It's okay. I can't think of anything more disastrous than that date. I expected her to break it off right then."

"So did I. She turned out to be a lot tougher than I imagined."

"So what did go wrong there, John? If she wasn't put off by being kidnapped and almost murdered, why did she end it?"

That was a question that Sherlock had asked me back then as well. I had replied with a brief, "It didn't work out." He had known even then that there was more to it than I was telling him, but he hadn't pressed and he'd let me go without making any attempts to deduce me. That was very uncharacteristic of him...another gesture that I had missed. Angelo arrived with our meal before I could reply to that question. He set our plates before us and poured the wine with all of his customary flourish.

"There you go. Enjoy your meal." He said. Then he patted Sherlock on his shoulder and said, "Take care of him now, Sherlock. This is a good man you have here." Sherlock nodded.

"Well?" He said once Angelo left. He was still waiting for an answer to his question about Sarah.

"Well, um...we ended up in bed on our fourth date and...I couldn't quite...perform." I said and I went a bit red in the face. I couldn't help it. It was an embarrassing thing to have to admit to, but considering that Sherlock was the reason for the embarrassment, I thought he had a right to know.

He looked astonished. Clearly, it was the last thing he had expected to hear.

"What? Why?" He said.

"I don't know. It just felt wrong. I thought I wanted to, but I couldn't. It was embarrassing and horrible."

"Why did it feel wrong?"

"I had no idea. It just did. We got started but I kind of froze and I couldn't go on. Sarah had a theory about it though. She said that it felt wrong to me because I was in love with you."

"Really?"

"Mm...hmm."

"You didn't agree with her..."

"Of course not! I was too damn busy not being gay, remember." I had to shake my head at my own stupidity.

"And the others?" Sherlock said referring to the four other women that I had dated.

"None of them stuck around long enough for us to get either into a bedroom or into a relationship. Though they all agreed with Sarah. All of them told me that I was in love with you and then they dumped me. And I still didn't see it. I don't know why I clung to the whole 'I'm not gay' thing as long as I did...I really wish I had seen it sooner."

"Seen what sooner?" He said with a smirk that I found completely adorable.

"You know damn well, what." I said.

"I want to hear it, John. Don't you think you've made me wait long enough?" He said softly.

"Yeah, you're right. I love you Sherlock. I love you very very much. And I'm sorry you had to fake your own death before I saw it..."

**...**

**A/N: I love reviews. Reviews make me want to keep writing. So what are you waiting for?**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I know I haven't been replying to reviews lately. I've just been busy. A combination of real life and too many writing commitments. But I look for reviews every day and I'm absurdly pleased when I get them. So thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and favourited this story. You really do make me want to write more.**

...

"I want to hear it, John. Don't you think you've made me wait long enough?" He said softly.

"Yeah, you're right. I love you Sherlock. I love you very very much. And I'm sorry you had to fake your own death before I saw it..."

Sherlock looked at me for a long minute, as if he was trying to make sure that I had meant what I'd just said. Then he took my hand in his and gently ran his thumb up and down the back of my hand. "I love you, John." He said finally. "But you have to know that I have no idea how to do any of this. How to be in a relationship, how to treat a partner..."

"Neither do I, Sherlock. I may have dated more than you, but all I have to show for it are a bunch of failed relationships. So I don't know how to do this either. But we'll figure it out together, yeah?"

He nodded. Angelo came by with the offer of more wine. But really, I think he just wanted to check on us. We declined the offer of the wine. Neither of us wanted to be drunk that night. And Angelo didn't push. He looked at the two of us a couple of times and nodded, apparently satisfied by what he saw.

"Can I ask you something?" I said, after a while. "You've been a bit different since you came back." I was thinking about the fact that he'd been making tea and fixing breakfast for me every morning and that he'd confined his midnight violin playing to his bedroom (not that I had actually been sleeping, but still.) Also, he'd been paying attention to my complaints about his experiments. There were still eyes in the microwave and body parts in the fridge, but he was trying to keep his experiments from taking over the entire kitchen. He continued to insult my intelligence on a regular basis, but there was a fondness in the way he did it now. "You've changed in some ways." I said. "Why?"

He shifted in his chair, looking a bit uncomfortable. "I did a lot of thinking when I was away, John and I realised that I often take you for granted. I assume that no matter how nasty I've been to you, you'll forgive me. And you do. So most of the time, I don't even apologise. I assume that you'll do all the shopping and the cooking and the cleaning. And you do. You worry about me. You try to make me eat and sleep and I get angry with you and tell you to stop being a mother hen."

"I think I realised just how much you put up with. It's unfair to you. I've never cared before because I was so sure that that one day you would propose to one of your girlfriends and then you'd get married and you'd leave. Maybe I was even a bit resentful about that." He said.

"I was surprised when you continued to stay with me. I never understood why you did...But now I know. So I'm trying to be better, just so you won't wake up one morning and decide that you can't put up with me anymore. So you see even when I do little things for you and show a bit of consideration, I'm working from a selfish motive. I really want you to stay with me. I've had a whole year of living without you. It was horrible. Somehow, I survived it. But I don't think I have it in me to do it again."

I was stunned by this little confession. _Typical Sherlock,_ I thought and I couldn't help but smile._He has to claim a selfish motive to justify being nice to me. It wouldn't do for Mr Sociopath to admit that he just likes doing a few small things for me._

We were silent for while after that. It was a bit overwhelming to think about what was happening here. Our relationship had just changed. There was no going back to being friends from here. Not that I wanted to, but I couldn't help but worry a little bit. What if we couldn't figure out how to be a couple? What if we messed it up? I couldn't imagine how horrible that would be. He was right. There was no way either of us could manage to live without the other again. So easy or not, we had to find a way to make it work. Sherlock seemed to be engaged in similar thoughts. I was looking out of the window when he spoke again.

"I'm still not going to do the shopping, though." He said and I had to laugh.

"I don't expect you to. I remember what happened the one time that I made you do it. You forgot the milk, the bread, the eggs and the vegetables. In fact the only things you got home were frozen peas, five different kinds of shaving cream, six cans of beans and a gallon of dish wash liquid."

"I was distracted! And I meant it when I said I needed the shaving cream for an experiment."

"You're always distracted. And I was so sick of eating beans by the end of that month, I haven't so much as looked at them since."

"And we still have the peas." He said and we burst out laughing. See what I mean when I say that life with him is never dull?

...

We got home after what I can only describe as a wonderful first date. Mrs Hudson smiled knowingly at us as we wished her good night and climbed the stairs. We walked into our apartment, no our home. (It had gone from being a shared apartment to our home a long time ago. I was only just acknowledging it, though.) We took off our coats and kicked off our shoes. We turned to look at each other and suddenly I was nervous. _This is Sherlock. I know him better than I know anyone else on this planet. What do I have to be nervous about?_I thought. But it didn't help. So I did what I always do when I get nervous. I went into the kitchen to make tea. Ridiculous, I know.

Sherlock followed me into the kitchen after a minute. He stood at the table watching me. I had my back to him as I filled the kettle and turned it on. I turned around and looked at him for a long minute. He looked right back at me with a question in his eyes. _Bloody hell! Am I a man or what?_I thought and then I walked up to him and put my hands on his shoulders. He smiled. Then I raised a hand to his face and traced my fingers along those beautiful cheekbones_._He coloured a bit, his cheeks pinking in a way that I found quite adorable_. No one_ _should be this sinfully good looking,_ I thought as I moved my hand to the back of his neck, stood on my toes and pulled him into a kiss.

It was tentative yet familiar, gentle yet passionate...It was something I had wanted to do for a long time without even knowing it and it was perfect. We stepped back from each other for a moment. I found Sherlock looking at me with an intensity that made me shiver. And before I knew it, I had pulled him close and I was kissing him again feeling absurdly pleased when he let out a soft moan in response. It was unlike any other kiss I had ever had. It made my heart pound, it made me feel weak at the knees and somehow, through all that passion it made me feel very loved indeed.

Sherlock followed me into my bedroom that night without my having to ask him. We changed and settled under the covers. We turned out the lights and watched the moon light dance across the curtains and over the floor. We talked for hours that night, holding on to each other and kissing every now and then. We weren't ready to go any further with each other yet. That would take some time. We were both a little tentative given our lack of experience and a strong desire not to mess this up. But just then, none of that mattered. What mattered was that we were finally together. Somehow I had got past my stupidity and my thick headedness to acknowledge something that everyone else had seen a long time ago...

...

**A/N: As always, tell me what you think.**


	8. Chapter 8

I woke up the next morning to find Sherlock sitting up in bed, resting against the head board and reading on my laptop. He was sitting right next to me and running his fingers lazily through my hair. He smiled as soon as he realised that I was awake.

"Good morning..." He said in that wonderful voice of his. I hadn't realised until that moment just how seductive it is..._like melted chocolate,_ I thought.

"Good morning." I said as I looked up at him. I realised that I was smiling...a silly, goofy, I'm so happy I can't believe it kind of smile. I couldn't help it. It was such a wonderful way to wake up.

"How long have you been up?" I said.

"Around three hours now."

"And you're still here?" I was surprised. Sherlock could never stay in bed, once he was awake. He had to be up and about, doing something, working a case, doing an experiment or pacing up and down, complaining of boredom. I couldn't believe that he had simply been sitting in bed and reading all this while.

"Where else would I be?" He said. He sounded so matter of fact, like it was obvious and understood that he would be close to me if he could. It made me smile. It made me snuggle up to him and rest my head on his shoulder. What can I say? I am utterly besotted with the man.

"Besides, I like watching you sleep. It makes me feel peaceful." He said as he put his arms around me and pulled me close. And he claims that he is not romantic. We held each other for a couple of minutes. I had no desire whatever to get out of bed, but I had to go to work. I tried to get up, but Sherlock wouldn't let me.

"Let me go, love." I said, surprising myself with that endearment. It had felt so natural to say it.

"Did you just call me 'love'?" He said.

"Problem?" I said imitating him as well as I could.

He smiled at that. "No. I just...I really like it and I'm surprised." He said looking completely bemused.

"Well, so am I, to be honest. But it felt right. So I guess I'm going to keep saying it."

"Good."

"Sherlock, you really have to let me go now. I have to go to work."

"No. I want you to stay at home. Call in sick or better yet, quit."

"I can't quit!"

"Why not? It's not as if you need the money. We make more than enough on our cases."

It warmed my heart to hear him say that. To see the way he automatically included me in his work. I always went with him when he called and I tried to help in any way I could, but honestly, my medical opinion was rarely needed. Because Sherlock knew as much about examining bodies as I did. He would always ask me to take a look, but my observations only served to confirm what he had already figured out. My only real contribution was to watch his back and keep him from running headlong into danger and taking unnecessary risks. That was an important job, to be sure, but it in no way justified his claim that we solved cases together. We didn't. It was all him and his remarkable intelligence.

"That is very sweet of you to say, love, but you do all the work. You solve the cases. I'm just there to watch your back. So they are not really our cases and the money you make is not our money. So I do need this job, you know. Wouldn't be able to pay my share of the rent otherwise." I said and then I kissed him lightly on his cheek and got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. He stayed where he was. He had a thoughtful look on his face like he was trying to understand something.

I took a quick shower and walked out of the bathroom to find that he was no longer there. _Probably downstairs_ _making the tea and the toast and cooking the eggs_, I thought fondly. It was a small thing for him to do, but it made me so very happy. I got dressed quickly and ran down the stairs just in time to see him pour the tea out. He was still looking thoughtful. _Uh oh._

"John, do you honestly believe what you said earlier?" He said as soon as I sat down.

"What about?"

"About you not really helping me solve our cases?"

"Yes. I do have the odd useful idea, I suppose, but other than that, I just stand around like the rest of them, while you solve the case."

"That is not true at all." He said. He sounded indignant. "The first time that I took you to a crime scene with me, that was an impulse driven by curiosity and a desire for company. And perhaps a desire to impress you." He coloured a little as he said that. It is a sight that I find completely adorable. So I smiled and that hint of pink on his cheeks got deeper. I love knowing that I can affect him like this.

"But I realised something after that night. I like having you with me. There's just something about your presence that soothes me and calms me down. My brain just works better and I solve cases more quickly. And you have this unshakeable faith in me unlike all the others who don't believe a word I say until I actually prove it..." He said softly.

I reached for his hand and held it. It was clearly very important to him that I understand what he was saying. So I listened quietly, keeping my arguments to myself.

"And while you may not regularly have ideas that might help solve the case, you nearly always say or do something that puts me on the right track. And you are an excellent sounding board. My thoughts are always clearer once I've talked them over with you. And you deal with all those irritating people, you take care of all the social niceties that I can't be bothered with. What I do would be so much more difficult if I didn't have you."

_Wow_...that was all I could think as I sat there trying to process everything that he'd just said.

"I do all that for you? Really?" I said. My disbelief was obvious.

"Yes you do. And then there's your blog. I hate that you started writing about me and turned me into a bit of a celebrity, but I can't deny that you've helped build my reputation. A lot of our cases have come to us because of your blog. So this is as much your work as it is mine. And the money we make from our cases belongs to the both of us. I need you to understand this. I know that you are a proud man, John. You insist on paying your share of everything. I really admire that. But I need you to know that you do more than your fair share already. You don't need your job just to pay the rent."

I had a lump in my throat as I stared at him. I had trouble articulating exactly what I was feeling. "That's...wow, that's really generous of you, love."

"No, it's not. I'm not being generous, John. Not at all. I'm being honest. You truly do all of that for me. I need you to understand this. We are partners. We work together. We solve cases together and I would really appreciate it if you would stop reducing everything to money. Your money, my money...I hate it when you do that! You belong to me and I belong to you. Everything else is...detail."

I sat there feeling utterly gobsmacked. I'd had no idea that Sherlock valued me that much. I honestly had no idea what to say. So I did the only thing I could at that moment. I walked around to his side of the table. I leaned down and I kissed him. I tried to put everything that I was feeling into that kiss. It was intense and beautiful. My heart was thudding like it was going to leap out my chest. _God, I love him so much,_ I thought as he pulled me on to his lap.

I sighed when he wound his hand through my hair. I gasped when he ran his fingers lightly across my jaw and my neck. I put my hands around him and pulled him closer and then I proceeded to kiss him thoroughly. I felt like I wanted to know every inch of him. I wanted to mark him and make him mine. And so I pulled away from his mouth and started to suck on his neck. He gasped and bucked into me. So I did it again feeling inordinately happy as the skin coloured under my teeth. I could feel his heart beating against mine.

I moaned as I felt his arousal against me. I felt a sharp spike of need for him just then, a need to get as close as possible and love him as intimately as possible.

_So much for taking it slow_, I thought as I found myself grinding against him. He seemed every bit as desperate as I was. And when we finally climaxed, it was brilliant, amazing, wonderful, the best ever. I realised then and perhaps he did too, that we needn't be tentative about our physical relationship. We loved each other so much that anything we did would be brilliant. We didn't really have to try, beyond wanting each other and that we did...a lot. Needless to say, I never made it to work that day.

...

**A/N: Tell me what you think.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I'm sorry I haven't been replying to your reviews. I'm trying, but it is just that I am currently in the middle of writing three different stories and I am rather stressed for time. Particularly because I try to make sure that I update every couple of days. But I read and treasure every review. So please keep them coming.**

**...**

It was two days later. I was at work. I had ten minutes to go before my shift ended. I had just seen my last patient out and I was trying to get all the paper work done when I heard my phone beep. I picked it up.

_Lestrade called. We have a case. Murder. I'll pick you up outside the clinic in ten minutes_. SH

_I'll be there_. JW

I had only just stepped out of the clinic when Sherlock came by in the cab. I got in and I found myself reaching for his hand almost immediately. I don't know how it had got like this so quickly, but I almost could not be around him without wanting to be close to him. It wasn't that I wanted to jump him all the time, okay, I wanted to jump him plenty, but this was more about affection than sex.

I'd lost count of the number of times I had told him that I love him in the past three days. And I'd thought that that was the kind sappiness that only affected teenagers. I am a grown man and I am a complete sap when it comes to Sherlock. I tried to explain it away by saying that I felt like I did, because it was all so new. The years have proved me wrong, but back then, it seemed like a reasonable enough explanation.

We got to the crime scene and got out of the cab. We had stopped outside an apartment building. There was the usual line up of police cars. Donovan was waiting outside. It was an awkward moment to say the least. The last time I'd seen her, she'd been smirking at the sight of Sherlock being arrested. It was hard not to be angry with her. Sherlock stiffened next to me as well. Glad as he was, to get back to work, he too would probably have liked to have avoided the bitch if at all possible.

How much she must have hated him, I thought, to take what had been a brilliant deduction on his part and twist it about so that he looked like the one who had committed the crime. Sure Moriarty had helped that bit along, but she had been working with Sherlock for years. I could understand that she hated him, he had never been nice to her, but then he'd had no reason to be nice. She was the one who kept calling him a freak and a psychopath.

Sure he got excited at the thought of a murder, but that was not because he got off on it as she had so stupidly claimed, but because he saw murder as a problem, a puzzle that had to be solved. And with a mind as brilliant as his, he could hardly be blamed for being excited at the thought of an interesting problem to solve. I couldn't see how she could be so thick as to not see that. Even if she couldn't understand it, I don't know how she could possibly look at Sherlock and see a criminal.

As we walked up to her, I noticed that she seemed a bit uncomfortable too. She lifted the crime scene tape. "Detective Inspector Lestrade is waiting for you. Fifth floor." She said, with the kind of stiff formality that I for one, was very surprised to see.

"Thank you, Donovan. I hope you're having a nice day." Sherlock drawled as he walked past her. She had no idea how to react to that. I walked past her without a word. It would be a long time before I forgave her. I was hoping, as we climbed the stairs that we wouldn't have to see Anderson as well. I didn't stand to see that slimy git right then. But, no such luck.

We walked into the fifth floor apartment and found Lestrade and Anderson in one of the bedrooms, standing over the body of a man. He was lying face forward on the carpet and he had been shot in the head. Anderson had retrieved the bullet and he was placing in an evidence bag as we walked in. Lestrade saw us first. "Well there you are." He said. Anderson scowled. I wanted to bash his face in, but I restrained myself. A prick like him is just not worth the trouble, I told myself.

"Well, what do you have?" Sherlock said and Lestrade rattled off the details.

"Name's Henderson, forty-three years old, works as an account manager at Barclays, lives alone..."

"Married and divorced, two kids, fairly young..." Sherlock continued as he walked around the room, looking through the closets, the writing table and the ensuite bathroom as I stood back and watched, glad to see Sherlock back in his element. "...he sees them fairly often, so the divorce was probably amicable, though that bears looking into, which leaves his ex-wife without enough motive unless there's a big insurance policy in his name, in which case the money would go to the kids and not to her, so still insufficient motive." He said.

The photographs of his kids on the wall combined with the fact that he lived alone were enough to conclude that he was married and divorced with young kids. But how had Sherlock figured that he saw his kids fairly often and so the divorce had probably been amicable? Sherlock explained that he'd noticed a box of crayons and some drawings on the coffee table in the living room, then there was the half eaten box of chocolate flavoured cereal on the kitchen shelf that he'd noticed as we walked past and then the largish collection of kids clothes and toys in the closet of the bedroom that we were in at that moment...all very clear indications that his kids were here often. It all seems so obvious when he explains it. _  
_

He knelt down to examine the body. He stood up after a couple of minutes and said, "John." That was my cue. I walked up to the body and examined it. "Shot at close range, death was instantaneous. He's been dead for anywhere between four and six hours now." I said.

"Who found him?" Sherlock said.

"His ex-wife." Lestrade said.

"Where is she?" Sherlock said.

"We released her after questioning. She's probably at her apartment now. Here. I'll give you the address." Lestrade said as he fished around in his pocket.

"Have you spoken to his colleagues at Barclays?"

"I'm headed there now." Lestrade said.

"Fine. We'll come with you. We'll speak to his ex-wife later. I'm pretty sure she has nothing to do with this anyway." Sherlock said.

And so we headed to Barclays and after a long and seemingly fruitless round of questioning, we went to meet his wife and nothing much came of that either. So we got back home not having made any kind of progress.

Sherlock was lost in his 'mind palace' and not inclined to conversation. So I left him lying on the couch to think while I went into the kitchen and got dinner started. I had never been much of a cook until I moved in with Sherlock. I'd never really had the need to cook. Whether I was in med school or in the army, there was always the canteen or the mess to provide meals on time. And when I got out of the army, I'd subsisted on takeaway.

I would have gone on like that even after I moved into Baker Street. It was Sherlock's appalling eating habits that finally pushed me to learn to cook. If I could only get five meals into him in a week, I was going to make pretty damn sure those meals were nutritious. So I learned to cook and I got pretty good at it.

I stood at the counter chopping vegetables and stirring the pot of pasta, my mind every bit as quiet as my home...it was a silence that I found soothing. I was used to Sherlock withdrawing into himself. I knew he needed it from time to time and I was happy to give him that space. It took me about an hour to finish cooking. I set the table and went to see if I could rouse Sherlock. I found him examining a wallet.

"Whose wallet is that?" I said.

"Henderson's."_ Of course_.

"Are you going to tell me how you got hold of it?"

"Nicked it when I was looking through his closet." _Naturally_.

"Find anything?" I said.

"Nothing of interest..." He said. He sounded far away.

"Dinner's ready."

"I'm not hungry."

I sighed. It was going to be one of those nights. _Okay then_. I perched on the arm of the couch and I ran my fingers gently through his hair. He leaned into the touch. So I continued. It is surprising how much he likes it when I do this. Soon, he was leaning back with a smile on his face, looking totally relaxed. So I leaned forward and kissed him. He put his arms about me and pulled me on to the couch. And then we were lying next to each other kissing lazily.

"Are you trying to seduce me John?" He said after a while.

"No, love. I'm saving that for later. Right now, I'm just hoping to mellow you down, so that I can get you to eat."

"John! I can't. I have to think about the case. Food will slow me down."

"Right. I've heard that many times before and I still don't buy it."

"It's true."

"Not the point. You need to eat, love."

"John..." His resistance was crumbling, so I pushed my advantage.

"It'll only take about ten minutes and then I'll leave you be. I won't insist that you sleep, I promise." I said. I was sensible enough to pick only one battle at a time.

"It's a good thing I love you." He said.

"It is only because I love you that I fuss over you." I countered.

He sighed in defeat. "Fine. Let's eat." He said as he got off the couch and led the way into the kitchen.

He sat at the table across from me, looked at the food and sighed. "You're too good to me, John." He said.

"It's no more than you deserve, love." I said and we settled down to share a warm meal and quiet conversation, putting aside thoughts of work and everything else, just for a little while. Now it is another matter that halfway through the meal, Sherlock sat bolt upright and said, "That's it!" He sent Lestrade a quick text. Then he grabbed our coats and dashed to the door and said, "Come on, John. We haven't a moment to waste." And what did I do? I grabbed my gun and followed.

...

**A/N: Time to hit the review button :-)**


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock solved the Henderson case that night. But it took a while to gather sufficient evidence against the people involved. Henderson had apparently stumbled upon an embezzling ring run by a few of the account managers at Barclays and he had somewhat foolishly, confronted one of them about it. The scheme had been a lot bigger than Henderson had imagined, and the people running it, his boss included, had decided that getting rid of him would be a good way to shut him up.

While Sherlock figured the whole thing out that night, it took us three days to chase down everyone responsible. Finally, it was all done and we got home feeling exhausted. We walked in the front door, took off our coats and leaned against the wall in the hallway, as we always did, when we came in after several hours of chasing clues all over the city. That little stop is our way of dealing with the all adrenaline that tends to still be in our systems long after we need it.

I turned to look at him and there was a certain something that passed between us, like a ripple of electricity, almost. I had felt it before...every single time that we had been in this situation, in fact. We'd look at each other for a moment and then we'd look away and then one of us would crack a joke and we'd burst out laughing. The tension would be diffused and the moment lost.

I didn't crack a joke this time, though. I smiled and then I reached for him and I pulled him close and kissed him hard, putting all that adrenaline to good use. He responded as he usually did, by placing his arms around my waist and tugging me even closer...a couple of minutes into the kiss and I knew that we wouldn't be able to stop at that. And I had no desire to have Mrs Hudson walk in on us, so I pulled away.

We quickly made it upstairs. I shut the door behind us and locked it. Sherlock grabbed me from behind and started kissing me on the back of my neck. I could feel my breath hitch as I leaned against him. He turned me around to face him and we reached for each other again, kissing passionately...I could feel my brain shut down and the world disappear as I turned us around and pinned him against the door and explored his mouth.

I could feel him relax and melt into my arms, almost. It is such a heady feeling to have him give in to me completely like that. I pulled away from his mouth after a bit and started kissing and nipping at that delectable neck of his. He moaned and arched his body in response. It was enough to drive me wild. I tried to be gentle...I didn't want to give him a hickey that obvious, but it was hard to resist the urge to claim him in that way.

"I'd rather you didn't restrain yourself, John." He gasped, clearly reading my mind as usual.

I laughed lightly and then I bit down on his neck feeling a surge of possessiveness as the skin on the side of his neck coloured...I licked and kissed that spot as I wondered at my own feelings. I have never been a possessive man, but Sherlock brings out all these feelings in me that I didn't even know that I was capable of.

I started to run my hands all over him, feeling the need to be close. It was aggravating to have our clothes get in the way, so I pushed his jacket off and he pulled my jumper over my head. I was desperate to rip his clothes off, and I could sense his desperation as well, in the way he tugged at the buttons of my shirt. I held his hands and stilled them...we looked into each other's eyes for a long moment and then we knew. We knew that this was it. There would be no holding back tonight. There couldn't be. We needed each other too much.

But desperate as we were, we wanted to take our time. We were going to give ourselves to each other completely for the first time that night and that had to be special. We made our way up the stairs to what used to be my bedroom. I thought it was a bit ironic that I hadn't used it at all in the year that Sherlock had been gone, preferring to sleep in his bed instead and yet now that we were together, we had elected to make this our bedroom. "It smells like you, John." Was all that Sherlock had been willing to say about it.

We walked in and shut the door and then we proceeded to undress each other very very slowly, kissing and touching as we went. It was like a slow tease and it made me crazy with desire. I looked at Sherlock as he lay on his back, his skin practically glowing against the blue of the sheets...he looked so beautiful and so decadent. I found myself wondering again, why someone as gorgeous and sexy and utterly desirable as Sherlock would choose to be with me. _What does he see in me?_

"Only the most beautiful, most amazing man I've ever known. Do you have any idea what you're doing to me right now?" He said, as he ran his hands all over my body, looking right into my eyes with an intensity that made me shiver. "I want you so much..." He said in that wonderfully sexy voice of his and then he pulled me down into a long kiss that said everything that he couldn't say with words.

"How do you do that? How can you always know what I'm thinking?" I said as I pulled away and started kissing my way down his body, starting with his neck...

"You have the most expressive face, John."

"Are you saying that I'm so transparent that you can always tell what I'm thinking?"

"No, not always. That's what makes you so fascinating...you are so expressive and so obvious and yet every now and then, you say or do something that is completely unexpected and you surprise me..."

"Like this?" I said, and then I took him in my mouth, feeling insanely gratified when he nearly arched off the bed and moaned. That moan made me harder than I already was and it made me go at him with all the passion that I was capable of. He turned the tables on me soon enough and then it was my turn to feel like I was going to explode. We spent a long time making love that night...

For all my supposed experience, I had never known that sex could be this fantastic. But then again, I had never been in love before...And with Sherlock, it isn't just love or desire. It is a need to belong, a desire to claim and be claimed in turn...he is a part of me, every bit as much as I am a part of him and we simply have to be together to be whole.

...

I woke up the next morning and found Sherlock sitting next to me on the bed and reading as usual. He followed me into the shower and ensured that I was late for work...I heard from him several times that day. He had nothing to do, apparently and he'd figured that texting me was a good way to relieve his boredom.

_I miss you. SH_

_I love you. SH_

_Get home soon. SH_

_I'm bored...I wish you were here. SH_

_Even my experiments are boring. SH_

All of these made me smile and I replied to them every time I had a couple of minutes between patients. Slowly they went from sweet to petulant.

_I don't understand why you have to go to work. SH_

_I am a doctor, love. This is what I do. JW_

_There are other things that you could do which wouldn't take you away from me. SH_

_True. But this is what I want to do. As it is, I spend more than half my life running around after you. JW_

_I hate your job. SH_

_I'm going to be home in a couple of hours. Stop complaining. JW_

And then, the texts turned suggestive.

_I'm not complaining. I just want to feel your arms around me and your lips against mine. I want you, John. SH_

I never knew that a text could make it difficult to breathe...I was still contemplating a reply when he sent another.

_I still have difficulty sitting down. You were very thorough last night. SH_

That resulted in images and thoughts that are very inappropriate in the work place. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath.

_Bloody hell, Sherlock! I'm at work. I cannot be thinking these thoughts...stop texting me. JW_

_What thoughts? Ooooh! Are you imagining me naked and writhing under you? SH_

I was imagining it now and it was a wonderful image, capable of doing all sorts of completely inappropriate things to my anatomy. My face was flaming...and then my next patient walked in. Somehow, I pushed all those thoughts aside and focussed on my job. Finally I got through my shift, but a part of my mind was still being tortured by those damn texts. I'd felt my phone vibrate in my pocket a few more times and I knew that it would be more of the same. I tried hard not to look at my phone when I was done with the last patient of the day, but I only succeeded for about ten seconds...I honestly do not have that kind of will power.

So I got my phone out of my pocket. There were four texts. I was expecting more innuendo and flirting and remarks designed to wind me up and instead, this is what I saw...

_Now I'm imagining you all naked and flushed and writhing under me. It is such a lovely image. Do you know how beautiful you look when you've just climaxed? SH_

_I think I'll have that picture burned into my heart forever. I love you, John. SH_

_And now I want you, really badly. Is there such a thing as being addicted to a person? SH_

_I've never been like this with anyone. This is a whole side of me that only you seem to bring out. You make me feel playful and sexy and you make want to flirt...It is so freeing, John. I love you. SH_

What do you do when someone says things like these? Most people, even when they're in love, tend to hold back a little bit, but not Sherlock. In all the time that we've been together, he's always said exactly what he's thinking. He has no qualms about letting me know exactly what I mean to him and just how much he loves me and needs me. He's completely honest and it takes my breath away every single time. He makes himself totally vulnerable to me, without once worrying that I'll take advantage of him. I asked him about that once and he said that he doesn't worry about it, because he knows I will not take advantage of him and so he doesn't see why he has to hide any of his feelings.

So what did I say in response?

_I just read through the last four texts that you sent me and I'm overwhelmed. I really have no idea what to say...except that I am the luckiest bastard alive. I love you. JW_

It has been many many years since then and I still think that I'm the luckiest bastard alive...

...

**A/N: This for now is the end. There may be a sequel sometime in the future, but I can't be sure about that now. This has been a lot of fun to write and I want to thank everyone who read it and particularly those of you who made the time to leave a review. **


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